


Don't be such a drupe

by davy_jones



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 09:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8200888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davy_jones/pseuds/davy_jones
Summary: Bartolomeo could have died laughing at the remote idea of Mihawk “Hawkeyes” Dracule, strongest swordsman in the world, falling at the clutches of a fruit allergy. And really it would have been such an entertaining sight- the normally stoic and poised pirate resorted to wheezing and attempting to retrieve air with closing windpipes - but Fate would be a kind mistress today, dismissing the swordsman’s lifeline in the rookie’s hands. What kind, kind Fate.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sorry. This gem couldn't have come to life without a very amusing Mihawk roleplayer I met back when, so I thank her very much for going along with these silly shenanigans that is Bartolomeo.
> 
> Nothing explicit happens between the characters, this is all for laughs. (But if you want to squint, it may be potentially shippy)
> 
> If I manage to get a laugh out of you, I'll consider that a success. Enjoy !

It started with a cherry on top.  
  
The reason was minute. A hindrance, really. One would think the world’s greatest swordsman had perfect grasp on anything and everything that was dealt him, but it was moments like these that reminded the mass that he was still human.   
  
An allergic reaction.   
  
Bartolomeo could have died laughing at the remote idea of Mihawk “Hawkeyes” Dracule, strongest swordsman in the world, falling at the clutches of a fruit allergy. And really it would have been such an entertaining sight- the normally stoic and poised pirate resorted to wheezing and attempting to retrieve air with closing windpipes - but fate would be a kind mistress today, dismissing the swordsman’s lifeline in the rookie’s hands.   
  
So thus, Bartolomeo was the one to take Mihawk to the hospital. While uncommon, allergies could develop or return with old age and the doctor supposed it was sheer dumb luck that Bartolomeo was the one to find Mihawk in this sad state. Aiding the man left a strange taste in his mouth - to this day, he wouldn’t know why he did it - maybe because the sight had looked so pathetic for a man of such standing that it pissed him off.   
  
In the end, Mihawk had thanked him. It was strange, and he didn’t like how the words sat on his ego.   
  
“I ain’t heartless, old man. I’m surprised ya didn’t die from embarrassment first.”   
  
Of course, Bartolomeo could talk shit all he wanted (and he would) but he also knew Mihawk could easily slice through him and then some. Still. He had, to an extent however small it was, saved the man’s life. And that he would have no problem holding it over the man’s head if necessary.   
  
“... While I do thank you for your assistance in bringing me here, I believe your grating voice will impede on my recovery. So, if you please.” Fancy talk for ‘thanks, now get the fuck out.’ Easy.   
  
He’d just make sure to send a crate full of cherries to the Warlord’s home next time he was feeling generous.

 

~~~

 

How it started was, in all honesty, a fluke. After seeing the man to the hospital from what he affectionately dubbed the 'Cherry Fiasco', old Hawkeyes didn’t really enter his thoughts much after that. In fact, it was well after six months from that occurrence did he hear from the man again, in a pretty unexpected manner.

He received a handwritten letter, wrapped in intricate penmanship and formal writing, which basically thanked him for his assistance back then. He had nearly forgotten. In fact, Bartolomeo had to stare long and hard at the letter, mostly in disbelief because surely- _surely_ , Mihawk of the _Warlords_ had something a lot better to do with his time than to be mailing out handwritten thank you letters… or maybe-   
  
A hard bark of laughter left him at the thought and he slid his gaze to the heading, making note of the address before he gestured for some parchment and paper. To have been sent something so thoughtful warranted an equally kind gesture after all and if Bartolomeo was anything, it was obviously kind. He absolutely couldn’t contain his grin as he scribbled out his own note, sealing it with a stamp of his Jolly Roger on both letter and envelope. The young captain leaned back in his seat, smirking as he considered the letter’s contents once more before sending it out.

 

_Old Hawkeyes Mihawk,_

_What a way to make a fellow blush, crafting something so thoughtful.  
_                                                                     _The thanks is mine. Can’t say I’ve seen anything like it in a while._  
 _But hey, if you really wanted to make it up to me,_  
 _here’s a little number : ----- --- ----- ---- ._  
 _It’s a lot easier to keep in contact these days than letters, yeah._  
 _Not mention a bit faster._

_I’ll hear from ya sometimes, hawkeyes~_

_X Bartolomeo_

_P.S. Maybe not in six month’s time either :P_

 

~~~

 

He received a call from the Den Den Mushi not long after that and what followed was a silly, sporadic game of telephone where Mihawk begrudgingly held conversations with Bartolomeo in bouts of boredom. The super rookie was both amused and elated because _who wouldn’t be?_ It proved to be an entertaining time for whenever the man found time to call, usually waiting months at a time but it was just as well.

Just for this one occasion, however, Bartolomeo took the initiative to give the swordsman a call. The droning _purupurupuru_ of the Den Den stopped short as the call picked up and Mihawk’s familiar monotonous voice picked up on the other end.

_“Hello?”_

“Oi.”

There was a heavy put-upon sigh.

_“Listen rookie, what makes you think-”_

“Wanna play a game?”

A pause answered Bartolomeo as he grinned at the unchanging face of the transponder snail, which reflected the man’s expression on the other end. Then he started to see the beginning of a grimace and broke out into a laugh.

“I know what ya want.” Bartolomeo stifled another another grin while absently summoning small barriers from his fingertips. “And I think m’ready.”

The air grew thick and without even looking at the snail’s reflective expression, he knew the figurative cogs in Mihawk’s head all but grounded to a halt. It was a 2 AM call and there wasn’t much purpose for it other than to mess with the man. Consider it a success if the silence continued.

_“... I think you have the wrong number.”_   
  
Teeth grinned wide, leering and provocative for a rise as he brought the speaker closer to his mouth.

“Do I _really?”_

 

~~~

 

It might have been a mistake, in retrospect. There was no winning out experience in some things like if the tongue was better well-versed in wit than himself. He discovered this quick following the call from that night. It was like Mihawk was out for verbal blood, baiting him for a snarky retort before biting into the proverbial neck of the conversation.

The calls continued sporadically throughout a month, but lately on some of these night calls, Bartolomeo may have been a bit inebriated- okay, a lot. That was the best way to handle these calls; it made it easier to parry words when he was pleasantly and thoroughly shit-faced. He could only imagine what tame things he’d end up spouting if he were sober; something boring and less eloquent, he imagined.  
  
“Hawkeyes~ Ya callin’ so fuckin’ early~ Miss me already?” he slurred, voice thick with liquor but riddled with mirth. Whenever they spoke after he had started drinking, not even Mihawk could bring down his mood. He swore he could feel the petulance in the other’s sigh on the line before the deep familiar voice sounded.   
  
_“You recognize by now that that will never be the case, unless if it was in your dreams, to which I can only imagine the atrocities in them.”_   
  
Bartolomeo couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out of him.   
  
“Pfff, _fuck_ you, old man-!” he bit back before taking another swig of ale. “Ya wouldn’t call so much if ya din’ care.” Though his tone was teasing, it was a genuine observation not even Mihawk could deny. And deny he didn’t, but there was a huff of unmistakeable, perhaps amused, laughter.   
  
_“‘Fuck me’, you say. Surely another crude fantasy of yours.”_ The man was undoubtedly smirking even if that tone of voice was as level as the still ocean. _“It’s not a choice in poor taste, at the very least.”_   
  
A spray of ale expelled from his mouth suddenly, taken aback by offhanded comment. Did he just have a brain aneurysm? Bartolomeo stared hard at the transponder snail which only reflected that same stoic expression, knowing his was anything but.  Mihawk’s chuckles were palpable and borderline mocking.

_“Speechless? That’s a surprise coming from you,_ rookie _. Where’s your belligerent retort?”_   
  
_“Ffff-!”_ A second was all he needed to collect himself, but he couldn’t help the hiccup of laughter that carried in his voice. “Oi, that’s helluva ego on ya.”

Mihawk didn’t even wait a beat.   
  
_“You brought up the thought.”_   
  
“Afjdk- _you_ brought up the idea of fucking you!” He couldn’t help but to interject. Was his face feeling warm?.. Now he was thinking it in his heavy drunken stupor. Shit. “Why would _I_ wanna-”   
  
_“Are you saying I can’t be fucked?”_   
  
“No! What-- _Yes-_ !” His brain was definitely shutting down or more eloquently put, it was walking out on him. It couldn't handle Mihawk's 2 AM backwards logic right now and the only way to avert this crisis was to literally walk out of his head and-  
  
“Very persuasive, rookie. Here’s a hint: _I_ am unfuckable.”

Two loud seconds passed in Bartolomeo’s head as the point flew over.  
  
“ _Okayyy?_ Hold on, what’re y' _sayin’_ \- are y’-”   
  
_“Shut up, you’re breathing too loudly, rookie. I can smell your breath from here. Sober up the next time for this to continue.”_   
  
There was no chance to answer back, as he was left staring at the transponder snail while it suddenly hung up and went to sleep. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, rubbing his thumb up against a callused middle finger as he attempted to piece that last bit of conversation together, but nothing stuck.   
  
He wasn’t sure what face to make at that point, but there was no stopping his confused laughter, pitched high in disbelief and confusion. Did he just get his ass handed to him? Did he just-? _Next time?_

There was no way he was drunk enough for this.

  



End file.
